


Who Are You, Really?

by qthelights



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Atlanta, Barely there Hoechlin/OC female for plot purposes only, Baseball, Beaches, Character Study, Comic-Con, Drunk Sex, First Time, Food Sex, Friendship, Homesickness, Interviews, Jealousy, Los Angeles, Love, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Moments, On Set, Pining, RPF, Sleepiness, Slow Build, Snow, Summer, Tequila, Trailer Sex, Travel, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan and Hoechlin learn more about each other the longer they work together.  The more they learn, the more they like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Are You, Really?

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a series of moments based upon the Sky Living interview wherein Dylan answers a set of quick fire 'either/or' questions. You can see the interview that this is based off (and I suggest you do, it's fantastically hot and adorable) [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIpM9F0aokg).
> 
> Please ignore that some of the timeline doesn't match with reality, I've kept it fairly close, but a few things are a little out of order to suit the narrative better. Neither of the guys have girlfriends in this 'reality'. 
> 
> Endless thanks go to [Nanoochka](http://nanoochka.tumblr.com/) for her patience - this one started easy and became hard (ha) - I would never have finished it without her support and of course, her beta, which is hands down the best you'll ever receive.
> 
> ETA. There was a problem with an italics tag on the epub version - now fixed.

**Sun or Snow**

Tyler prefers the sun. In the sun he can play baseball and he can surf. He can laze about on the chaise lounge, napping in the backyard as its rays warm his chest, a cooler of beer at his side and the game blaring from inside. Sun means freedom and LA, parties and cool drinks that sweat in his hand. It means afternoons at Dodger stadium, sunburn pink down his neck and the bridge of his nose, feeling sick from the mix of stale dogs and warm beer and pure adrenaline from the anticipation each time the ash cracks against leather.

Snow is cold. Tyler doesn’t really like being cold. He tried snowboarding once and it was fun, it was, right up until he nose dived into a snowdrift and a fistful of tiny ice crystals skittered down under his jacket to hit bare skin. He'd been wet and clammy the rest of the afternoon and by the time he got back to the hotel that night he was downright grumpy in a way that would have rivalled any of Derek’s major pouts.

Filming in Atlanta during the winter? Also cold. The Hale house scenes were the worst. Sitting around waiting to roll camera while his breath clouded the night around him and his dick froze was not his idea of comfortable. Dylan and Posey laughed at him, like frostbite was funny. They had youth and hot blood on their side, though, dancing and jittering around like wind-up toys on speed. 

Okay, so he’s not that much older than them, but it’s enough. Enough that he can sense where age is waiting to pounce in years to come by the creak of a knee as he hobbles out of bed at 4 AM to go back to work, or the way his neck twinges after memorising a script for an hour in the one position, slumped on the couch, feet up on the coffee table.

It’s enough that the cold is fucking cold and makes him long for hot sand and the warmth of azure seas, but then, summer has always been Tyler’s favourite season.

Until it snows in Georgia. 

He’s out of bed at the second chirp of his fucking annoying alarm, consummate professional not about to be late. It’s early as far as his call time goes, but if he doesn’t get out _now_ he’ll end up relegated to the hallway while Posey hogs the hot water, dripping water and soap all over the floor like he forgot to close the curtain and showered in the middle of the room. Then Dylan will be there with his sleepy amber eyes, pleading to let him go in before he freezes his nuts off, full-body shiver thrown in for good measure. _That’s_ acting, folks. 

Before Tyler knows it, the car will be waiting and he’ll be left pulling yesterday’s clothes on, hair wet and soap still on his skin, Dylan and Posey chattering away in the car like they’ve had hours to acclimatise to the early hour. All in all, it’s just better for him to get up when his stupidly early alarm goes.

It’s particularly cold this morning, and he’s swearing to himself about the unfairness of his big break being so far away from summer sport and LA when Posey and Dylan come running up the stairs from _outside_. What the fuck?

“Dude, it’s mother fucking _snowing_!” Posey cries, clomping mushy water all over the carpet with his boots. “Snow day!” he cackles and reaches into his pocket only to bring out a clump of white ice, complete with twig.

He throws it. At Tyler’s head.

It hits the wall behind the couch and slides down with a slick thud, landing wide. About as wide as Posey’s eyes as the surprised look Tyler can feel on his own face shifts into retribution. 

With a ‘whoop,’ Posey runs, back out the door and clomping down the stairs.

Dylan’s grin is wide and knowing as he shrugs. “You expected anything less?”

Tyler laughs, shakes off the need for revenge, because he’s not _stupid_ , he isn’t going out in what amounts to icy rain when, despite what Posey thinks, they have to _work_ today. Let the kid freeze his own dick off.

“Coffee?” he asks as Dylan shrugs out of his repurposed warming jacket stolen from set.

“Hell yeah,” Dylan agrees and follows him into the kitchen, obedient in the knowledge of impending caffeine.

They lean against the counters on opposite sides of the kitchen as the coffee machine goes through its slow boil and drip. Perhaps Tyler is still asleep or Dylan still cold, but whatever it is, they’re quiet. Watching the coffee and each other, without need for noise and action.

Tyler acknowledges that the cold, the snow, and being outside at the asscrack of dawn has brought out Dylan’s rosy cheeks. He looks young, the flushed circles standing out starkly against the white of his face. 

The thought sideswipes him that they remind him of targets, bullseyes, taunting him to pin Dylan down and aim.

Fucking snow.

 

**Pay Cash or Credit Card**

“Do you even own a credit card?” Hoechlin says from behind him, and Dylan manages not to jump or swallow his tongue. He’s pretty impressed with both.

With feigned calm, he continues to count out the tens and twenties in his hand. Hoechlin snorts, a soft huff of warm air that whispers across the back of Dylan’s neck. He represses a shiver, digs in the front pockets of his cargo pants and pulls out a handful of copper and silver coins.

He hands over the notes and appropriate change. The lady behind the counter smiles at him, eyes flickering hesitantly to Hoechlin, who is currently hanging over his shoulder trying to look in the grocery bags. Dylan returns the smile awkwardly, takes the offered receipt and picks up the bags,

Hoechlin buys a granola bar. On his Mastercard. Which is ridiculous. 

As they head out into the parking lot, Dylan sees Hoechlin’s truck parked next to his leased Taurus. It’s not the huge red monstrosity that he has back in LA, but it’s still ridiculous in size. He didn’t even know rental companies leased things that big. As if Hoechlin needs it to battle the wilds of downtown Atlanta.

“So do you?” Hoechlin asks, carefully opening the wrapper so it doesn’t rip and he can slide the granola bar itself up out the top.

“Do I what?” Dylan asks as they make their way to their cars. 

“Own a credit card,” Hoechlin responds around a mouth of muesli and dried fruit. 

“Of course,” Dylan answers. Because he does, even if he’s almost never used it.

“So why the cash? Go to a lot of strip joints in your downtime?”

Dylan raises an eyebrow at Hoechlin as they get to the cars, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. “Does that sound like me?”

Hoechlin shrugs and takes another bite, oats and nuts crumbling from the bar and falling to the pavement. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

Dylan snorts. 

In truth, he’s reluctant to spend his cash because he knows how fickle the industry is. He knows this dream he’s suddenly and abruptly living could disappear just as fast as it started. The only thing he’s really even bought so far on the shiny credit card he was approved for was a present for his mom’s birthday. Other than that, it’s mainly been trips to the ATM, as if by touching the money, counting it in his fist so he knows what comes and goes, it will keep him safe. Not just from a lack of money, but from the bubble bursting on it all. _Teen wolf_ , acting. The whole direction of his life. 

To use a credit card would be so much easier. To not have to wonder how much money he has left in his wallet before he goes shopping would be great. To not have to factor in how many ATMs are nearest the club or restaurant the guys are going to that night... But it would also be _too_ easy. 

He wants that ease, of course he does. It’ll just be a little while longer, just until they know how the series is received in the ratings. Until he lets himself believe he won’t be fired for a lack of acting experience, badly delivered lines and an inability not to adlib when he knows it pisses people off. Just a few more paychecks before he lets himself relax. 

Believes it could be easy.

 

**Restaurant or Picnic**

Tyler still has close-ups to film and he doubts he’ll get off set anytime soon. Which is okay, it’s still light out, miracle of miracles, even if that’s due to a call time so early this morning it was almost yesterday. 

The odd night off, if one generously calls it that, has gotten most of them riled up. Colton and Posey have been goofing around for the last half hour, teasing the girls and laughing uproariously at each other. Crystal is taking it all within stride, doing a very zen impression of still being in character, and god knows, they were lucky when they paired her and Posey together, because anyone else could have been disastrous. As it is they’re kind of like siblings... siblings who adore each other and make out as their day job. It’s weird, but somehow it works. Holland is mocking the boys, even though most of it goes over their head in their sugar-induced freedom high.

Dylan is oddly quiet, tiredly slumped in his director’s chair next to Holland, chin cradled in his hand and a bemused, content smile across his mouth as he watches the others.

“Hey let’s go out,” Posey says, so loud in his excitement he’s practically yelled it across set.

Colton clamps a hand down on Posey’s shoulder in apparent solidarity. “Hell yeah, let’s try the new fusion place downtown,” he agrees.

“Oooh,” Holland’s eyes light up and she slides out of the chair that is too tall for her without Lydia’s platform heels. She goes to stand next to Colton and slips an arm around his waist, his own going around her shoulders possessively. “Yes.”

Crystal, ever the practical one, pipes up. “What about Hoechlin?” she asks, nodding in his direction and the fact that he isn’t done yet. 

It’s almost laughable, how Holland, Posey and Colton all wear identical matching frowns within a split second.

Tyler laughs, settling into the chair Holland vacated. “Don’t worry about it. I’m beat,” he replies. “I’d fall asleep in the soup or something. You go ahead.” 

It isn’t entirely true, but he doesn’t want the others to ruin their night off waiting for his close-ups to be done. One downed camera and they could be here for hours.

“Are you sure?” Crystal asks, voice sweet and concerned.

“Positive,” he assures her. “And hey, if I get off early enough I might join up with you later.”

There’s a general explosion of action as the guys all grab their things from where they’ve managed to spread out jackets and bags and scripts in a four yard radius around their chairs during the day. It’s only as they’re about to leave that they realise Dylan has fallen asleep, head lolling to the side in his palm.

“Shit,” Posey whines. “Should we get him home?”

Holland smacks his upper arm at the tone and gets a hang-dog expression and overly enthusiastic hug for her troubles.

“I’ll make sure he gets home,” Tyler offers. Is about to clarify that he’s sure he can con one of the PAs into giving Dylan a lift but is cut off by Posey’s somewhat attempt at a quiet ‘whoop!’ of joy. 

“Love you, dude.” Posey grins and plasters a sloppy kiss on Tyler’s cheek before he can even register the kid in his space. “You’re the best.”

Tyler laughs. “Go on, get out.”

The others make their way off set, chattering as they pair off; Crystal and Posey, Holland and Colton, likely without even realising it.

Tyler watches them go and then turns to look at Dylan next to him. He can’t believe Dylan can sleep like that. It’s ridiculously unstable the way he’s propped himself up. Tyler’s pretty sure his own body would object to the possibility of imminent falling and not allow sleep to happen.

Dylan’s mouth has fallen open, all plump lower lip and ridiculous cupid’s bow. His eyelashes are dark smudges of coal against his skin. Tyler has never seen anything look so innocent and pornographic at the same time. 

Awkwardly, he shifts in the chair, willing himself to think of his lines instead of the sleep-warm boy next to him. It sort of works, and by the time Russell comes to get him for the shooting, eyes rolling at the sleeping Dylan, he’s more than ready.

“I’ll get him home soon as we finish,” Tyler assures Russell, suddenly unwilling to wake Dylan or send him home with someone else. Russell just nods, ‘your funeral’ written all over his face.

Amazingly, his close-ups go off without a hitch, and he definitely has time to join the others downtown for dinner. The thought of a crowded restaurant isn’t appealing right now, though, for whatever reason, and he finds himself drifting over to craft services.

He grabs a few of the take-out containers that are stacked neatly to the side, for those that have to eat and run, or eat while running, and fills them with an odd assortment of whatever looks reasonably edible. Fruit, pastries, mini pies and quiches, egg rolls. Fills another container with oreos and the lamington things that Russell makes Craft stock, along with Vegemite and other weird shit that no one else goes near. Except Posey.

Tyler detours past his trailer to grab his keys, and then to Dylan’s trailer for his messenger bag where it lies haphazardly on the floor. When Tyler returns, Dylan is still asleep where he left him, testament to there being almost no one left on set to wake him and insist that it’s no way for a star of the show to get some shut-eye. 

He almost feels mean about it. Dylan looks so peaceful, but he simply can’t sleep like that, nor can he do it here, so Tyler shakes him gently by the shoulder.

“Hnuh?” Dylan mutters as he wakes, eyes huge and owl-like as they adjust to the light. 

“Time to go home, man,” Tyler says gently. 

“Where’severyone?” Dylan slurs as he attempts consciousness. 

“Dinner,” Tyler answers, steadying Dylan as he stands. “But you need to go home.”

Dylan blinks some more in a way Tyler tries not to find adorable. “Hungry,” he manages.

“S’okay. I have a plan.”

Dylan smiles, large and genuine as he rubs sleep from the corner of his eyes. “You always have a plan. You’re like a real alpha.”

Tyler laughs, because yeah, no. Not even close. It’s nice to hear though. “The plan only works if we get home, though.”

Dutifully, or insomnally, Dylan follows Tyler to his car and it’s only a short time later that Tyler is pushing Dylan up the stairs ahead of him to their apartment. 

Dylan collapses on the sofa and, rather than make him get up again, Tyler just reheats what needs to be warmed up and arranges everything else on a haphazard collection of mismatched plates across the coffee table.

Dylan watches him with a smile, eyes drooping but still sparkling in the downlights all the same.

“I literally love you right now, man,” Dylan says as he takes a bite of a mini-hot dog covered in ketchup that Tyler brought from the kitchen along with everything else.

Tyler snorts and tries to ignore the squirming warmth in his chest. “Close your mouth when you chew,” he says and then laughs as Dylan sticks out a tongue heaped with masticated meat product. “You better behave or you won’t get dessert,” he says sternly.

The way Dylan’s eyes light up at the mention of dessert has Tyler laughing until he begins to choke.

 

**Suit or Jeans**

It's stupid and childish, but Dylan hates when they have to dress up. Specifically, he hates when the boys have to wear suits. Posey, Colton, Hoechlin. Him. If he can get away with it, he doesn't. He'll wear a dark t-shirt, something that looks sophisticated when it really isn't. It makes him feel marginally better, more himself, but it doesn’t really address the problem. Which is the guys that _aren't_ him are wearing suits.

Suits mean costumes. Costumes mean acting. A red carpet that has to be traipsed down. Small talk that has to be _talked_. He and Holland weren't kidding when they once said they aren't good at it, except that she is. Posey is Posey. He just laughs and jokes and acts like a fourteen-year-old. Holland spouts philosophy and educational upbringing. Hoechlin is perfect. All plastic and smiles, perfectly acceptable quips and self-deprecation mixed with down-to-earth, honest niceness.

Dylan hates that the most.

The Hoechlin that weaves the red carpet, impeccably dressed in Hugo Boss, in suits that don't age him, don't make him look like raided his father's closet like Dylan's do, still California-cool, is not the Hoechlin Dylan likes. It's fake and grates on his nerves. Posey and Hoechlin are great at selling themselves, with the hair and the modestly appropriate flirting. Dylan hangs back. He was never in it for the fame, is only in it by accident, and he doesn't like this false attention. A one-on-one interview? He can deal, even if it seems utterly _ridiculous_ that anyone would want to spend time on _him_ , and he keeps waiting for the joke to reach its conclusion, the other shoe to drop.

But press lines and paparazzi, screaming fans and megawatt lights? No. It makes his skin itch and he wants to crawl into the nearest shadow. In the end he might as well be invisible if the other guys are with him anyway, which he hates and clings to at the same time. He wants to be the one with the smiles and easy charm, the one the interviewers gravitate to rather than ignore, but he also doesn't. Not at all. Not ever.

He wants to be ignored, even while he doesn't. 

What he really wants, and yes, it's absolutely selfish and driven of jealousy, is for the guys not to step so easily into the roles they're expected to fill. He wishes it were just a little harder for them. That they wouldn’t ignore him sulking in the background, even though they _have to_ if someone is going to do their job that night.

What he hates even more is that when he's in that mode, when he's approached the night on the wrong angle and nothing is able to bounce him out of the rut, he needs his friends; not the Barbie-and-Ken Stepford versions. He needs Hoechlin to be _Hoechlin_ , to tease him and be ready with a quick barb or a sarcastic retort. To rile him up by calling him a kid and tackle-hug him to the ground to prove that he can. That version of Hoechlin is never there on the red carpet, only the sanitised version. The version that is nothing but teeth and chipmunk cheeks. The one that flirts with the interviewers and demurs on questions of fame. 

It does nothing to calm Dylan down.

He’s a mess of jangled nerves by the time they make it back to the car afterwards. It’s a relief not to have to feel guilty about not smiling, to not have anyone _looking_ at him. His fingers tap out an abortive, fast-paced rhythm against his knee, foot jerking on the pedal of his imaginary kick drum.

Hoechlin raises an eyebrow at him, as he wrangles the stick into reverse, arm out and hand on the back of Dylan’s headrest as he checks, maneuvers them out of the lot. He doesn’t say anything, though, and for that, Dylan is eternally grateful.

It’s only once he’s back in his own clothes, the soft denim of his most worn-in jeans that he begins to feel normal again. 

 

**Day or Night**

Tyler is very good at keeping his inappropriate feelings hidden deep down inside him, so far down that, honestly, he’s pretty sure he never had them in the first place. 

For the most part, it’s easy. Whenever Dylan is with Posey, there’s good enough reason to think of him as a kid. When they’re giggling over a fart, pulling practical jokes on each other, tussling on the couch for the last controller, they’re every inch their age.

Even when it’s harder, when it’s light out and they’re filming, Derek and Stiles don’t interact all that much, so really, Tyler doesn’t see Dylan at his most serious. Not when he’s most natural, as lines pop out of his mouth and emotions spill from him directly onto the film like he was born Barrymore instead of O’Brien.

Watching Dylan act is not something Tyler needs to dwell on, because Dylan’s acting is at a level about twenty years older than it should be for his age. It’s confusing and, well, kinda hot. Tyler’s an athlete; he’s professionally predisposed to see a peak performance as something to be lusted after. Doesn’t matter that Dylan does it with his mouth, his eyes, the way he uses his body as an instrument. It might as well be a split-finger fastball from the bottom of the ninth for the difference it apparently makes. The tiny inflection of an eyebrow, curl of a lip, or guttural tinge to a sarcastic barb and Tyler’s both jealous and turned on at the same time.

During the day, though, there are a lot more people around. It’s cold, but not _as_ cold, and often there is a great deal more crew waiting around watching the proceedings than for the night shoots. A lot more distraction.

The problem, if Tyler had a problem, which he doesn’t, is the night time. Maybe it’s because he’s more tired than during the day, or because darkness somehow equalises everything, takes the edges off of reality and wears things down to their base elements. Or because of the way the set lights sparkle in the dark of Dylan’s shadowed eyes. The way Dylan sits up close to Tyler for warmth.

And Tyler can’t say no. Can’t say, ‘Don’t sit so close, man, because I’m experiencing conflicted feelings and Derek’s jeans are too tight for an erection right now’. So he has to play normal, throw an arm around Dylan’s shoulders and pull him in tight. Laugh at his jokes and discuss the Mets and put up with Dylan’s fingers poking him between his ribs when he gets too itchy and can’t sit still any longer.

Has to look at the mirth in Dylan’s eyes as he laughs and giggles and does that weird _Bert & Ernie_ Ernie snicker and pretend he doesn’t want to take it, all of it, and make it his.

Yeah, night is worse.

 

**Bond or Bourne**

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Dylan asks, aware his mouth is open in shock and not caring that he probably looks like a stunned guppy.

Colton stares back at him from across the room, kneeling with DVD in hand beside the TV, and utterly unrepentant. “I’m really not.” 

“But, but, James Bond is, _lame_ ,” Dylan says, voice leaden with pain.

Next to him, Hoechlin agrees. “He really is, bro.”

Dylan nods emphatically, satisfied with Hoechlin’s allegiance. He settles back into the cushions, arms crossed in solidarity. Hoechlin readjusts, falling in against him, legs spread, arm across the back of the couch behind Dylan’s head. It’s comfortable in a way Dylan has only ever experienced with this cast, the absence of boundaries and social mores.

“Bourne is way cooler,” Dylan continues. “He’s street and doesn’t take orders from anyone. Not even the Queen.”

Colton shrugs, placing the disc into the tray as it pops out of the DVD player and pressing it back in. “He doesn’t even wear a suit,” he says, as if it’s a valid argument that should be made.

Hoechlin laughs sharply, head thrown back and his ribs shaking where they’re pressed into Dylan’s side. Dylan watches for a second, marvelling at the contrast between serious Hoechlin and happy Hoechlin. Chalk and cheese.

“Your love affair with Hugo Boss is so gross,” Dylan says, screwing up his nose in distaste. “And totally irrelevant.”

Colton snorts, grabbing the remote and making his way back over to the sofa. He throws himself down onto the cushions, head resting on the arm and legs flopping over Dylan’s knees, feet resting on Tyler. “One day you’ll look like I do in a suit, Dylan, and then we’ll see how gross my love affair with Hugo is.”

“Hey,” Dylan protests. “I look plenty fine in a mother fuckin’ suit.”

Hoechlin pats his knee, reaching over Colton’s feet to do it. “You look totally hot in a suit, Dyl. Ignore him, baby.” 

Dylan swivels. “Did you just call me ‘baby’?” he asks incredulously over the sound of Colton chuckling like he’s about to burst a lung.

Hoechlin grins, also unrepentant. “Deal with it. Now be quiet and watch the movie.”

“Oh my god. I hate you both so much,” Dylan grumbles as the FBI warning flashes up on the screen.

And if Hoechlin’s hand slides down and massages at his shoulder ten minutes later, well. Dylan won’t give him the satisfaction of being mollified like a child. 

Even if he kinda likes it.

 

**London or LA**

Tyler loves Los Angeles. He loves California. It’s his turf. He was born here, and he’s pretty sure it’s a safe bet he’ll end up dying here too. Preferably a really long time from now, mind. Honestly, he’s not really sure why anyone would live anywhere else. 

It’s not like he doesn’t get to see other places. Baseball and filming take him all over. Illinois for _Road to Perdition_ , Atlanta for Teen Wolf. He actually loves to travel, to take in the sights and sounds, the people of different cultures. But at the end of the day, the only place that really feels like _home_ is the greater SoCal area.

It doesn’t stop him from feeling jealous when other people are experiencing places without him, though. Especially people like Dylan. 

Dylan, who is currently on the other end of the phone that Tyler has pressed to his ear, a soft jumble of tired vowels and slurred consonants. 

“Ergh, I feel shit, man.” Dylan is saying, almost moaning in Tyler’s ear. 

Tyler laughs, though not unsympathetically. “Go to sleep, Dyl. London will still be there when you wake up.”

He moves around the kitchen, grabs the coffee pot off the counter and fills it as he listens.

“But I can’t,” Dylan whines and Tyler has to pull the phone away from his ear a bit to save his eardrums. The boy can reach octaves no man should be able to with balls intact.

“It’s like, two in the afternoon,” Dylan continues. “If I go to sleep now I’m gonna wake up in the middle of the night.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Tyler says sardonically, watching as the coffee starts to drip down into the pot.

“Oh, _christ_ ,” Dylan yelps, “what time is it there? Shit! I am so so sorry, man!” He hears a sharp bang followed by the sound of Dylan swearing and Tyler can imagine him in the hotel room, practically see him hopping around with a stubbed toe. 

Tyler grins at the coffee pot like a bit of loon. “It’s cool, Dylan. Calm down. It’s not that early.”

It is, but he’ll live.

There’s a groan on the other end of the line and then the flop of a back hitting a mattress. He wants to tell him that if he lies down, Dylan will surely fall asleep despite his best intentions, but somehow the words get stuck in his throat.

There’s silence, just the gentle sound of Dylan’s breathing, and he’s pretty sure he should be making a joke about heavy breathing and phone sex right about now, but he doesn’t. Finally, he pours his coffee into his ASU mug and waits out the silence.

“It’s really fucking beautiful here,” Dylan says, soft and sounding so very young.

“Yeah?” Tyler answers.

“Yeah,” Dylans breathes, and Tyler can hear the fatigue sapping the commercialism from Dylan’s voice, his r’s and g’s slipping away and the Jersey sliding in. “Cobblestones. Lots of cobblestones. And like, these buildings, man. You have to see these buildings.”

Tyler wishes he could. 

“It reminds me of New York. Like, the old parts,” Dylan says softly and Tyler’s heart almost aches at the homesickness he can hear there. It’s no doubt brought on by the jet lag, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“I haven’t spent much time in New York,” he offers. 

Dylan snorts. “That’s a fucking travesty, dude. When I get back we’re gonna go, mmkay?”

“Sure,” Tyler says, because it’s Dylan. Of course he’ll go.

“Really?” Dylan asks, voice suddenly warm and missing the sad edge of a second ago. “Dude, we can go to a Mets game together and I’ll take you around the Village.”

“Mhmm,” Tyler murmurs his assent.

“Do you like Ethiopian food, because there’s this place that you just have to... Oh and cupcakes! We are so going to Magnolia Bakery. Posey will be so jealous. There’s this banana custard thing that...” Dylan breaks off making a pornographic sound and Tyler rolls his eyes, ignores the rolling of his stomach.

He sips his coffee as Dylan lists more and more things they have to go to. By the time Tyler’s down to the dregs, Dylan is starting to wind down, his voice slowing, each new item on the impossibly long itinerary coming slower than the last. 

“There’s this cool-” Dylan interrupts himself with a yawn and the cracking of his jaw. Tyler fights his answering sympathy yawn. 

He waits for Dylan to go on as he pours the last of the almost cold coffee into his mug, but Dylan has clearly forgotten what he was saying pre-yawn and lapsed into silence.

“You gonna take me to the Statue of Liberty?” Tyler eventually asks, partly to see if Dylan is actually still awake and partly because it’s the only thing on the island of Manhattan...well, off the island of Manhattan, Dylan _hasn’t_ mentioned.

“Fuck no,” Dylan says, or more like slurs, as he starts to succumb to sleep. “Why would I do that to you? You’re my friend, man.”

Tyler knows that, but somehow hearing Dylan saying it, muzzy with sleep, is different. Makes him realise things are way more problematic than an adolescent crush on a co-star. Or a crush on an adolescent co-star.

“Go to sleep, Dyl,” he murmurs, feeling his heart jackrabbit. He pushes the remaining coffee away.

“I shouldn’t.” Dylan sounds almost catatonic. “Jet lag and... you know... cupcakes...”

Tyler practically hears his heart lurch painfully in his chest as he listens to Dylan falling asleep. He can imagine him, fully clothed, t-shirt rucked up, jeans tight, converses still on his feet, curled up round his phone on a big, impersonal, hotel bed. Far, far away.

“D?” 

Dylan doesn’t answer, clearly dead to the world, but Tyler listens to the silence for a minute longer anyway, until he can’t in good conscience keep doing it without being a creeper. He thumbs the call off and places his overheated phone down on the counter. Stares at it.

Jesus. He needs to not be doing this. 

Also, he needs to go get laid.

 

**Player or Spectator**

Dylan is kind of stupidly ecstatic to be back in Atlanta. Filming over summer was fun, but kinda brutal. He had basically no spare time to hang with the guys, keeping up with their escapades via the blogs. They all seemed to be having an amazing time, turning up at openings and parties looking glamorous and chummy.

He was only a little bit jealous. 

Didn’t matter; he made the right choice to film, he knew it at the time, and still feels the same way now. But fuck, he misses his pack.

Posey has been sending him obscene text messages the whole time, and they’ve been increasing in frequency the closer they get to being back together again. Holland has been sending him emails and every so often Crystal sends him an emoticon in a text message. 

Sliding out of the taxi and into the cold Atlanta night air, Dylan grins up at the condo. Old buddy, old friend. He’s here days before he thought, managing to catch an earlier flight than intended. Posey won’t be in until the weekend, but Dylan couldn’t wait. At least if he’s in the city it won’t seem like such an interminable wait until shooting stars.

He knows Hoechlin is back in town already, saw one of the crew members tweet it, and he can’t wait to surprise him. He brought all the summer Mets games his dad faithfully recorded for him and he’s going to watch every single one of them with Hoechlin, even though he will have already seen them, and even though they know all the outcomes. It’s gonna be glorious.

The key slips home in the lock as smoothly as it ever did and he lugs his mega-large suitcase behind him up the stairs, grateful he’d listened to reason (and his mom) and sent the rest of his clothes as freight. Sure, most of what’s in his suitcase now is video games and music and somewhere, possibly, a toothbrush, but that’s okay. He doubts he’ll even leave the building for the next week anyway.

The wheel of his suitcase catches on the lip of a stair and Dylan yanks it in impatiently. It’s nearly midnight, but even if Hoechlin isn’t up, Dylan can remedy that fast. So many options; dripping freezing water down his neck, crawling into bed and whispering pornographic things into his ear in a falsetto voice, just plain pouncing on him and jumping on the bed. All have their merits.

Inside the combined kitchen and living room it’s all shadow and muted colours, only a couple of the down lights on, dimmed down low. Dishes sit on the bench by the sink, a jacket over the back of the sofa. 

Dylan grins, pushing his case quietly to the wall and toeing off his shoes. He slinks out of his coat, throws it over the sofa too, and then he’s sneaking, careful, slow treads down the short hallway to the bedrooms. 

Hoechlin’s door is ajar, but there are no lights, and Dylan literally has to bite down a little on his hand to keep from giggling at the rude awakening he’s about to deliver. And okay, he’s maybe a little more excited than someone his age should be, but it’s been a _long_ summer, and fuck, he _misses_ them.

His fingertips are literally grazing the wood of the door, knuckles bent ready to push it forward, when he hears it.

A moan.

A man’s moan.

A Hoechlin moan.

Holy mother of _god_.

And Dylan’s world _rocks_ , because it could not get better than this, catching Hoechlin jerking off under the sheets like a schoolboy. If Posey were here there would be camera phones involved, no question. Dylan will settle for merciless heckling.

The grin of his mouth actually hurts his face and Dylan takes one step further into the room when there’s another noise.

A sigh.

A woman’s sigh.

For three whole, stupidly long seconds, Dylan doesn’t quite understand. His brain helpfully throws up the fact that he’s never heard Hoechlin make _that_ noise before, and then there’s a tectonic shift, a sonic boom in his brain as he gets it. Hoechlin is having sex. With a woman. Right now. In front of him.

Dylan jerks back from the door as if it’s burned him, trips on his feet in his haste to get out. They’ve probably heard him, Hoechlin’s probably heard him, but he just _can’t_.

Blindly he wants to head for the door, but his shoes are off and his mom is in his head, telling him in no uncertain terms that he cannot wander the streets of Georgia without shoes, so he veers left into the room that used to belong to him, shuts the door and stands stock still in the dark, heart thumping out of his chest.

Okay, so that happened. Okay. 

There’s a strange lump in Dylan’s throat as he strains to listen, waiting for something to happen, for Hoechlin to barge into the room and yell at him for interrupting, or for a girl to scream or doors to slam. Something. Nothing happens. 

He feels kind of numb, a crawling feeling of _wrong_ starting to tinge the edges of his awareness. Hoechlin had to have heard him stumble backwards, the door of his room close. Which means he’s trapped. He can’t leave the room because he doesn’t know what’s on the other side of the door. 

Whoever the girl is, she’s still in _his_ home. He is _not_ going to have that conversation. Which, yeah, stuck. 

He flops down on the bed in his jeans and flimsy shirt. His suitcase is outside his room. His phone in his jacket pocket, the jacket currently on the sofa. Both inaccessible. Fuck. He doesn’t even have the distractions of texting or music.

Staring up at the dark expanse of ceiling, wilfully trying not to think about anything that just happened, Dylan decides sleep is the only fucking mature option here. He can wake up tomorrow and they can all pretend nothing happened. That he didn’t just catch his friend fucking someone. Dylan’s stomach turns over in a weird flop. Whatever.

Besides, he thinks, warming to the thought as it enters his mind, this is his fucking house too. It’s so not cool that Hoechlin would bring someone here without letting them know. It doesn’t matter that technically Dylan wasn’t meant to get in for a few days, it’s the principle of it. It’s their space and Hoechlin knows Dylan has trouble letting people in.

He’s a private person, and his _friends_ know that. Or he thought they did.

Dylan huffs in annoyance and turns over onto his side, bashing the naked pillow into something approaching comfortable. The anger, as comforting as it is, starts to slip, and in its place an image of Hoechlin comes unbidden into Dylan’s mind. Naked Hoechlin. _Fuck_. 

Dylan pushes his knuckles into his eyes, rubbing at the image. That is not something he needs to be thinking. Ever.

Objectively, he knows Hoechlin is hot. Of course he is. Half the fucking cast are amazingly beautiful. Okay, scratch that. The whole cast is, bar himself, Dylan thinks somewhat bitterly. He knows he’s not bad looking, and really, he’s heard he’s ‘cute’ often enough to believe it. The _Teen Wolf_ cast though, are not cute, they’re fucking smoking. Doesn’t mean he needs to imagine any of them having sex.

The air-con kicks on in a gentle hum but all Dylan can hear is the low rumbling moan coming from Hoechlin’s mouth earlier. From his lips. Those plump, blushed lips...

“Fuck,” Dylan swears out loud, barely above a whisper. What in the hell is wrong with his brain? He knows people have sex. He knows _Hoechlin_ has sex, in an abstract “why wouldn’t he?” kind of way. And yet the sound, the moan, loops in his head like some kind of annoying porno on repeat.

The way it had reverberated in the room... the way Dylan imagines Hoechlin’s eyes were closed, dark sweeps of lashes against high cheek bones.

He’s put out of his internal misery, moments or minutes later, when he hears voices. The low murmuring of Hoechlin’s ‘I’m being quiet’ voice, and a higher one: _the woman_. Dylan turns to where the sliver of the dimmed hall lights are spilling under the door and across the carpet, watches with caught breath as he sees the shadows of feet walk past.

The front door closing. Dylan lets out his breath.

He can hear someone in the kitchen now, obviously Hoechlin. The soft clatter of plates being moved on the bench, a chair being pushed in. And then there are shadows stopping at the base of Dylan’s door. He screws his eyes shut tight, feigns sleep in case the door opens. It doesn’t.

There’s a soft rap of knuckles against the wood. Quiet enough to be heard only if he was listening for it.

“Dyl?” Hoechlin’s voice comes, soft and hesitant.

Dylan says nothing. Even if he wanted to, his throat is suddenly constricted, tight and hard around a painful, unexplainable lump. Nothing happens and Dylan chances looking through a slitted eye. The shadows are still there. He waits, seconds long, sees when the shadows move, and with them, Hoechlin. A moment later comes the gentle closing of Hoechlin's bedroom door.

In the morning he sleeps in as long as his twitchy limbs will allow before leaving his room. Hoechlin is nowhere to be seen. Dylan isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or angry. He knows he shouldn’t be either.

This was not the homecoming he expected.

 

**Lover or Fighter**

To say things are tense would be a massive understatement. Tyler has seen Dylan angry before, of course he has. Days when the lines get tangled around his tongue and what should be three takes turns into thirty. Dylan, for all his talk of never being trained as an actor, is an actor down to his bones. He huffs and divas as good as all of them when things aren’t going well. Though perhaps Dylan’s self-hatred over wasting everyone else's time is a little more honed than most. 

He’s seen Dylan angry at Posey, on the odd, very rare occasion. Days when Dylan is obviously stretched thin and tired, and Posey’s surfer-dude charm gets too brash and loud for Dylan’s need for space. For a kid born in the 90s, Posey can channel the 80s drug-fucked toker really damn well. One too many arm jostles or jokes and Dylan snaps, harsh in his words to fuck off. Posey’s face changing into the epitome of kicked puppy is usually enough to bring Dylan straight back around, though, voice instantly softening and apologies tumbling out.

Tyler has always been good at picking up on Dylan’s need for space. Usually he can steer Posey away in time for Dylan to chill, a grateful look shared over Posey’s head. It’s what roommates do. What friends do.

What he’s never seen, though, is Dylan pissed at _him_. He doesn’t like it. Not at all.

He apologised as soon as Dylan deigned to be in the same room as him again. It’s not like he knew Dylan was coming early. He never would have had a girl over if he’d even slightly suspected it was a possibility. Never would have wanted to have a girl over if Dylan was there to hang with instead. Something he tries not to examine too closely.

When he heard the creak of the door, the sharp inhalation of air, his hips had stuttered. He’d known it was Dylan, because sometimes his life sucks just that much, like getting an offer for _Twilight_ when he’d committed to UC Irvine.

He’d wanted to go to Dylan, apologise right there and then, but he’s also not a complete asshole, isn’t going to leave the previously perfectly acceptable and now kind of not-as-good-as-a-minute-ago chick mid fuck. He doesn’t remember much of anything after that; they both got off, he made excuses and she left, leaving her number on scrap of paper and kissing him at the front door. 

He’d dithered, cleaning up a bit, turning the lights off in the kitchen before he stopped at Dylan’s closed door. His knock went unanswered and the pit in the core of his stomach deepened. The next morning Dylan was still holed up in his room and when Tyler realised he was looking at Dylan’s suitcase next to the front door, that Dylan hadn’t even left the room for pajamas, he felt like the worst piece of shit in the world. He’d grabbed shorts and a ratty old t-shirt and gone for a run.

Dylan was eating coco puffs, curled into the corner of the sofa and watching television when Tyler returned. Tyler had been sweaty, gross and hot, wanting nothing but a long shower and maybe to get himself off, but he forced himself to have it out, standing between the TV and Dylan.

Dylan looked at him with raised eyebrows, spoon frozen on the way to his mouth. “Um, dude? Kinda blocking the view.”

It was the first thing he’d said to him in the last however many months and Tyler had felt relief uncoil in his stomach at hearing the familiar vowels and consonants in Dylan’s sleepy drawl.

“Sorry about...you know,” he said, cursing himself inwardly at the lack of suaveness.

Dylan shrugged, the movement smooth and restrained. In other words, not Dylan. “Already forgotten, man. Didn’t mean to interrupt you gettin’ some.”

“It wasn’t...” he trailed off, unsure what he even meant to say.

Dylan was already trying to look around him to the TV. “Next time put a sock on the door or something, kay?” he said, voice pitched tight and _wrong_.

Tyler had agreed, promised regardless that there wouldn’t be a next time and left to have his shower. When he came back Dylan was _Dylan_ again. Sort of.

Except for where it’s now two weeks later, and he plainly isn’t. 

Tyler can tell, from the way he catches Dylan staring at him out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed and absently scowling. He can tell from the way that Dylan laughs more at Posey’s jokes than at Tyler’s. In the way his tone is that tiny sliver sharper when he bitches at Tyler to get out of the bathroom already in the mornings. He can tell by Dylan’s face. His stupid expressive face that finds endless ways to show his annoyance, the tick of a cheek muscle, the slant of an eyebrow, the purse of a lip.

Dylan is angry at him, and the damndest part is that, even though Tyler had really actually done nothing wrong, that if anything, he should be, could be, angry at Dylan, he just lets himself be sad. It’s pathetic, but there it is. 

Over the last couple of years Dylan has become Tyler’s happy person. He didn’t even realise it until now, doesn’t know when it happened or why. But Dylan is who he hangs out with when he needs someone. Sure, Posey makes him laugh and snort his drinks like he’s seventeen again and dick-jokes are funny, but it isn’t the same. That’s joy, certainly, but there’s only so much before it makes him crave the company of the adults. Of J.R. and Ian and Jill. Conversely, as much fun as Tyler has with them, he sometimes feels like the little brother.

With Dylan it’s just easy. He can laugh, he can be a kid, and he can also be an adult. They get when they need to comfort each other, and when to distract. 

Dylan’s a lover. He goes all out, wearing every emotion on his face and his heart on his sleeve. As much as Stiles makes sure Scott is okay, that the pack is in order, Dylan kind of does it with the cast and the crew, too. Does it because no one has ever told him not to, told him that loving so hard and so fierce, especially in this industry, is a recipe for disaster. 

To not be the recipient of that automatic love, to have it muted and rote, to not have the thoughtful extras Dylan brings to his life? Sucks.

To have him angry at him, actively fighting in the smallest miniscule ways no one can see but that Tyler feels like a thousand paper cuts? Aimed with all the finesse of a sledgehammer... It’s unbearable.

So unbearable that Tyler is so busy wondering how to stop it, how to make Dylan love him again, like Dylan loves _everyone_ , that it never even occurs to him to wonder why Dylan’s so angry in the first place.

 

**Work or Play**

Dylan gets the call from his agent on a Monday. 

He’s only back in LA for two weeks while they break in filming, but he needed the rest. They’ve upped the amount of Stiles’ screen time in Season Two and it seems like he’s filming every other day. 

So he’s back in town and planning on spending the majority of his fourteen days sleeping. He’s managed half a day of it so far, sliding out of bed at 11 AM in boxers and his oldest, most dearest (and hole-filled) Mets shirt. He doesn’t bother putting actual clothes on, just plonks himself down at his computer, its widescreen, glorious terabyte-filled gorgeousness one of the first things he bought when it sunk in he was truly gainfully employed, that he could use his credit card and it was easy and didn’t bring with it consequences of bankruptcy.

He fucks around with his fantasy baseball team for a couple of hours, pleased not to have to do a quick check and run between takes like he does in Atlanta. At some point there is coffee making and email checking, and when he looks up at the clock again it’s already three o’clock. He considers going back to bed for a nap, because he _can_ , when his phone starts trilling.

It comes out muffled so he locates it pretty quickly, shoved under his pillow from when he crashed last night.

It’s his manager, Liz, so he answers with, “Estelle. Darling. What do you have for me?” in his childhood Jersey accent.

She laughs, because she always does and it pleases him, makes him feel warm. “Dylan, so the Dodgers just called me,” she says, getting to the point in her matter-of-fact way.

For a second he’s silent because what he thinks he heard makes no sense at all. “Wait... what?”

She laughs again, this time at his confusion. “Yes. The Dodgers. They want you and Tyler Hoechlin to throw out the ceremonial first pitch next month.”

“Oh my god,” Dylan says, staring at the crack in the ceiling. He sits down on the edge of the bed.

“I know it isn’t the Mets,” Liz wheedles and Dylan chokes. 

“Are you kidding me? Of course I’ll do it. Hoechlin said yes, right?!”

“I have no idea, I only just got off the phone with them. Why don’t you talk to him and let me know. We’ve got till tomorrow.”

"He'll do it. Don't let them change their minds. I'll call you back." 

He hangs up on the sound of her laughter, which is totally rude, but he doesn't have time to worry about it right now, already thumbing through the contacts in his phone and swiping across Hoechlin's name.

Things have been a little weird between them for months, and Dylan knows that's mostly his fault. Overreacting to finding Hoechlin in the middle of sex. He'd been surprised, and surprise is not something he responds well to; it usually causing him to clam up and ignore whatever situation is making him uncomfortable. Dylan’s not the guy you want with you in an emergency, that's for sure.

Not that finding Tyler midthrust was an emergency. In truth, Hoechlin hadn't been in the wrong at all. It's not like he had some chick bent over the back the couch in the middle of the lounge room, after all. And Dylan was the one who wasn't meant to be there.

Still, he's by no means in a place where he feels comfortable examining the whys and wherefores of the extreme nature of his reaction. So okay, maybe, just maybe, he's been a bit of a dick to Hoechlin over the last season of filming. 

This, though, a chance to throw the first pitch at a real game, even if not a real pitch in the game, is bigger than his feelings about Hoechlin. For Hoechlin. Whatever.

This is baseball.

When Hoechlin answers he sounds like Derek, low and threatening. And clearly they’re on the same page, conversation-wise. “You better have fucking said yes, Dylan, or I will kill you.”

Dylan just grins, laughter bubbling up his throat in hysterical excitement. He throws himself down on the messy pile of bedclothes on the bed. “Fuck yes, how can you even ask me that.”

There’s a soft snort from the other end of the line. “This is just... I mean, it’s not the same, it isn’t like really being in the majors, but it’s something, you know?” Hoechlin asks, voice soft and happy.

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees, smiling. “It’s... I mean, you at least had this as a possibility you know? For me, this wasn’t even something to dream of.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re accepting your first Academy Award,” Hoechlin laughs.

Dylan brushes that off along with the blush that threatens to rise to his cheeks. “Whatever, dude,” he says, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. A thought occurs to him. “Hey, what game is it? Did they tell you?”

“Brewers. Dunno if the Dodgers have it in them, to be honest.”

“Depends if Kemp is back, probably,” Dylan says absently.

“True,” Hoechlin agrees, and they lapse into a silence that’s comfortable in a way they haven’t been for weeks.

“So, like, you’re pitching,” Dylan says, because Hoechlin has to. As much as Dylan would love to be the one...

“What? Are you sure?” Hoechlin asks, and Dylan can’t believe he can hear a question in the other’s voice, because _really_.

“We are not going to end up looking like the fucking Kardashians or something, man. We have to be good. You’re the baseball star. I’ll catch.”

“Thanks,” Hoechlin responds, and he sounds so awed that it’s even a suggestion that Dylan can’t help but feel warm and happy inside. He can’t help it, making other people happy is his drug. 

“We’re gonna have to fucking practice, though,” Dylan warns. Because he hasn’t played seriously in far too long.

“A lot,” Hoechlin agrees quickly, but Dylan doesn’t take offence. He knows this will be a big deal to Hoechlin, the chance to show people that hey, he could have gotten there. He knows there are going to be big-time nerves.

“Man,” Dylan breathes out, excitement and the need to breathe warring within his chest and making him lightheaded. “I can’t fucking believe we get paid to do this.”

He means acting, not the pitch, but it’s the acting that led to the honour, so, it makes sense in his head. Apparently it also makes sense to Hoechlin.

“It’s crazy, right?” Hoechlin says. It feels like the conversations they all used to have after Season One started airing, when they were mostly a bunch of kids nobody knew, faced with the prospect of making lives for themselves in a world that wouldn’t let them dream, if the acting gig fell through. 

“I keep waiting to wake up,” Dylan admits, and it really is more of an admission that he intends.

“You won’t,” Hoechlin says in his ear. “I promise.”

* * *

When Hoechlin pitches, it goes high, but Dylan expected for the nerves to skew it and he’s ready. As they’re walking back to the dugout, totally high on adrenaline and bumping into each other as they walk, Hoechlin bitches, embarrassed, but still too high that he can’t not laugh, can’t believe that’s the pitch he’ll be remembered by. Dylan just slaps him on the shoulder.

“You did fine.” He grins. “I had your back.”

It’s the first time they do their ‘handshake’ in months.

 

**Chocolate or Wine**

They finish up shooting Season Two and Tyler is so grateful to be back in California it isn’t even funny. It’s summer and hot and he plans on spending it at the beach house, surfing, lounging on the sand, getting drunk, and if he’s lucky, getting laid. Basically, being twenty-four.

And of course, given that he now has a beach house, he ends up playing host to half the state. Which is absolutely fine. Better than.

Holland comes up with some of their mutual friends and Colton in tow. Colton is weirdly moody and Holland keeps giving him ‘serious eyes’ from across the room. Tyler isn’t sure what’s going on, but he is sure he doesn’t really want a part of it. It’s so much easier to just coast along on the happier vibes of the others, enjoy the laughter and drunken board games.

He loves his friends and hanging out with them, but even so, he’s not a fan of constant excitement. He’s a child of routine and though he loves the ‘what if’ that comes from the quirky bunch of friends he’s collected over time, sometimes he just needs to get away from them and chill the fuck out.

Luckily, it’s his house. When the constant noise and frenetic energy gets to be too much, he just grabs his board and heads out into the surf for a couple hours of nothing but cool blue water, hot sun, and concentration on nothing but the suitability of oncoming waves, the balance of staying upright, turning, riding it out.

He’s man enough to admit it’s kind of a relief when the party leaves later that week, having eaten him out of house and home. Holland kisses him on the cheek and herds the still-sullen Colton out, the rest of their mutual friends following with hugs and slaps to his back.

Because Tyler can, he ignores the dishes piled in the sink and on the counter, the sofa cushions on the floor and the air mattresses crumpled in the corner. Instead he walks past it all, up the stairs to the second floor, new gray carpet soft between his toes, past the tiny guest room Holland has left in a perfectly neat state like she was never there, and into the master bedroom. He passes out in the middle of his bed, on top of the unmade rumple of covers.

He has no plans to take a quick nap, or a long one, perfectly happy to get up in half an hour or tomorrow afternoon. The breeze is warm and salty through the open window and all he hears is the soothing crash of the waves on the shore, gulls above the nearby cliffs.

When he wakes, it’s with the distinct impression it isn’t because he’s come to the end of a natural REM cycle. It isn’t a peaceful drift into consciousness but a sudden jolt into awkwardness. The room is dark and he struggles to open his eyes against the pull of sleep. 

Tyler realises that what’s woken him is the crunch of gravel in the drive, a car parking. A swathe of yellow arcs up the wall and stripes across the ceiling as headlights catch through the open window. It can only be someone here on purpose; his neighbours driveways aren’t close enough to confuse for his. 

He heads downstairs, scratching idly at his stomach beneath his t-shirt. He leaves the lights off, allowing the moonlight streaming through the windows to light the way. There’s a knock on the door right as he gets to it and when he opens it before the knocking even finishes he clearly startles the person on the other side.

“Hey.” Dylan waves awkwardly.

“Dylan?” Tyler asks, confused. He flips the hallway light by the door to bathe the room in soft yellow light. It illuminates Dylan in the doorway, standing there in cargos and a faded t-shirt and looking somewhat lost.

“Um, yeah, hi. So I thought I’d come visit.”

Tyler blinks at him, because he’s not quite awake or sure what’s happening. Dylan is a lot of things, but likely to turn up out of the blue on his own, not at the whim of Posey or insistence of a determined Holland, is unusual.

Dylan fidgets, suddenly looking unsure. “Uh, Holland said you were alone and I thought maybe...” He breaks off in a laugh. “But hey, you were sleeping, I’ll go, man. Shoulda called.”

Tyler shakes his head and remembers the manners his parents taught him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come in. Of course you’re welcome.” He steps aside and Dylan slips in past him.

They amble into the kitchen, Tyler with a grimace at the way the place looks. 

“Quite the party,” Dylan observes, eyebrow arching towards his hairline. Only weeks out of filming and it’s already growing out of Stiles’ buzzcut. 

Tyler snorts, runs a hand through his hair to settle the sleep spikes he’s sure it’s twisted into. The microwave clock says it’s not far past ten. “Do you want something to eat? Drink?”

Dylan looks at him funnily, in a way that Tyler can’t quite make sense of. “Sure,” he answers after a beat.

But when Tyler opens the fridge, there’s nothing but an open bottle of water and half a carton of eggs. Which means, really, all he can offer is what’s left on the counter. He turns to Dylan apologetically and sets down two bottles of warm beer and an opened bag of Doritos that’s probably stale. 

“I didn’t get time to shop, after...”

Dylan laughs, and it’s so much closer to normal than the last few minutes have been that something eases in Tyler’s chest. “Dude, I turned up without warning, I hardly expected chocolates and wine.”

Tyler doesn’t get why Dylan’s here. There’s obviously a reason, but Dylan plays things close to the chest at the best of times. If he asks, there’s no way he’ll get an answer. 

Dylan looks tired as he slumps on the stool. It makes Tyler want to comfort him in ways that are uncomfortable to think about. As much as he wants to walk around the bench, to touch and physically reassure himself that Dylan is okay, to smooth the furrows of his forehead or just pull him in and hold him, he can’t. He doesn’t have permission.

In the night time, sleep making his movements slow and his brain reverting to baser instincts, Tyler finds it hard not to feel the accompanying ache.

“It’s okay,” Dylan continues as he settles himself on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Are you sure? I could order pizza?” Tyler offers. Because the two of them could out-polite themselves on any day, even if they were both starving.

Dylan’s grin is rueful and it squeezes Tyler’s chest like a physical thing.

“Nah, man. It’s cool. Actually, I’m kinda beat... I know it’s rude to just turn up and pass out- ”

“You can take the guest room,” Tyler replies instantly. Because of course he can.

Dylan smiles gratefully and Tyler shifts into action before his sleep-addled mind does something stupid, like confesses his undying love for a co-star who has never indicated he’d be into it.

They go to sleep, Tyler not asking what’s wrong and Dylan not telling him.

* * *

In the morning, Dylan smells like Holland’s coconut shampoo and the slight sweetness of her body lotion. There’s really nothing like living in each other’s pockets on set to make that normal. Tyler had offered new sheets for the bed, but Dylan just scoffed at him; who was he, the Queen? So Tyler teases Dylan as he brings him coffee on the deck, tells him he smells like a girl.

Sleep-tousled and still bothered by whatever brought him to Tyler’s house in the first place, Dylan just responds with, “At least I don’t look like one.” 

“Burn,” Tyler laughs. He watches Dylan sip at his coffee while he drinks his own. The silence continues, but it’s comfortable, just the soft crash of waves upon the sand and the quiet scratch of Dylan’s feet rubbing against the decking.

“So I booked _The Internship_ ,” Dylan says, eventually breaking the quiet.

“Shit, really? The one with Wilson and Vaughn? That’s amazing,” Tyler says. He means it too, it is, it will be great for Dylan. Even if the idea of Dylan leaving makes his heart skip unsettlingly.

Dylan looks up from under his eyelashes, a cautious smile flitting across his features. “Yeah?”

Only Dylan would think there’s any question of it. “Hell yes. You’re gonna be a household name, man. We have to celebrate.”

Dylan’s smile widens. “Yeah.”

Something seems to settle over Dylan, his mood changing to one of contentment and Tyler has no idea what goes on in that head of his, but he’s glad Dylan comes to him when things go screwy. 

Dylan is almost chirpy after that; he helps Tyler clean the house, wash all the sheets, put all the mattresses away. Then they head to the local supermarket and Dylan picks up a block of chocolate and jokes, “Now you only need the wine!” 

Tyler laughs, because Dylan doesn’t mean it for real, and he purposefully picks up a bottle when he ducks into the local liquor store to restock his beer supply.

They get drunk on the beach as the sun goes down, passing the bottle of cheap, fruity white between them, Dylan leaning against Tyler’s shoulder. By the time the bottle is empty, Dylan isn’t even making sense, but Tyler doesn’t care, happy to dig his toes into the cool sand and drift on the lyrical melody of Dylan’s chatter.

Dylan goes back to LA the next morning; he has to pack and head back to Atlanta, not to film their show, but his movie. It’s bittersweet as far as Tyler’s concerned, but he waves and smiles from the front door as Dylan drives away.

The house feels strangely lonely when he’s gone.

 

**Eyes or Smile**

It’s after the baseball game and after they finish filming for the season. After he turns up at Hoechlin’s beach house with a particularly bad bout of ‘what am I doing with my life’’ issues. After he’s headed back to Atlanta and not found his friends, but new co-stars, none of them familiar. After other people with larger, more important roles shoot their scenes and Dylan has nothing to do with his time but daydream. 

After all, that is when he realises he has a fucking problem. Somewhere along the line, he’s kind of maybe fallen a little bit for Hoechlin

Fuck.

It creeps up on him, is the thing. If it were something he’d had advanced notice for, he’s pretty sure he could deal with it, tuck it away and forget about it, think his way into not thinking about Hoechlin that way. But that isn’t how it happens. Isn’t how it happens _at all_.

What happens is it blindsides him with all the subtlety of a Mack truck. He’s flown home for literally a few hours and is doing an interview with Kevin Smith which he can’t quite believe in and of itself, because seriously? How is this his life now? 

And really, the interview itself is fairly insane, what with Smith going on about how amazing Dylan is and how he’ll be a famous actor and generally making Dylan blush embarrassingly. But then it takes a really odd turn, even odder than it had been going, when they start talking about how weird it is to eat lunch with Hoechlin in werewolf makeup and there’s a mention of the wolf contacts, and then Dylan finds himself saying, in a teen valley girl voice like the bit they’d just been doing, “Oh man, like he even needs it, his eyes are amaaaazzing.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he realises maybe, just maybe, that’s a little strange to say.

It’s true, there’s no denying that, and he wouldn’t even try. It’s not even a question that Hoechlin has insanely amazing technicolour eyes. It’s just a little weird that Dylan finds he’s been thinking about them to the extent he apparently has.

Because he knows that, sometimes, Hoechlin’s eyes are a gunmetal colour, and other times they’re more grassy turquoise. Still others the outer rings are soft sea foam blue with bright chestnut rings and copper gold splashes around the pupil. Some days they’re green. Others they’re gray. In bright light they’re almost blue and when it’s overcast almost brown. Which isn’t even taking into consideration the beta-blue or alpha-red contacts. Or the way that, in the dark, when they’re pressed together in a shadowed corner booth with the rest of the cast, a litter of drinks on the table in front of them and Hoechlin turns to him with a smile over the beer bottle he’s just touching to his mouth, they blow almost _black_.

In short, it’s really quite obvious he’s spent way too much time cataloguing the variances of Hoechlin’s irises. 

And it’s not even just his eyes.

That’s the thing, because, apparently, Dylan has opinions on Hoechlin’s teeth, too. His canines are ridiculous. Half the time on set, when Hoechlin smiles or laughs or eats (and in retrospect, how did he _not_ know he had a thing for Hoechlin, _honestly_ ) Dylan thinks he’s already got his Derek-teeth in. But no, his canines are just that sharply pointed. How does anyone have teeth that naturally pointy? How does Hoechlin not bite his own lips all the time? Is that what got him the foot in the door with casting? 

And then there are Hoechlin’s eyebrows.

His eyebrows are just... the way they split direction on their inside edges, as if he has twin scar lines down them like some Luke Perry wannabe. The way Dylan often wants to smooth his thumbs over their expressive movements. Soothe the deep V that forms between them when Hoechlin is in Derek’s skin. The way he uses them as Derek to have whole conversations when every other muscle in his face is frozen still. The way he can raise one, or both, to prove a point, to gently mock, to be incredulously sarcastic.

Yeah. 

Totally fucked.

He doesn’t even know what to do about it. If there’s anything he can do. He knows it’s totally unprofessional to hook up with a co-star; things go wrong and then it gets awkward, creates a headache for the producers and PR and just, ergh. Even if he sees it going on all around him in practice...

Even if it were an option from a professional standpoint, it’s not like he knows if Hoechlin even swings that way. He only knows of girlfriends, not that that necessarily means anything. Dylan’s had girlfriends, after all. Difference is he’s had boyfriends too. 

Yep. Absolutely, positively, totally and unendingly fucked.

… and not in a good way.

 

**Chauffeur or Own Wheels**

Tyler checks his blind spot before he eases his truck into the pick up lane at LAX. No matter how many times he visits this airport, it never gets better. Too many people and too much drama, which he’d nearly always leave to a cab if he can, but he’s not here for a flight today. He’s here for Dylan.

It’s early, the sun barely coming over the horizon. The cool breeze and orange tinge to the light suggests it’s going to be an awesome day full of warm breezes and big waves. He wants to be out on them. He has a job to do, though, and today it’s Comic Con and that’s cool. It’ll be fun.

He’s picking Dylan up from the Atlanta-LA redeye he’s arriving on and they’re driving down to San Diego together. 

Dylan is already waiting for him on the sidewalk, leaning on the extended handle of an overnight case. He looks thinner than before, in dark blue jeans and a blue striped hoodie. Even tired and mussed from the plane, he looks good. Tyler is practically an expert at ignoring the hitch in his heart rate as he spots him.

He’s out of the truck and at Dylan’s side before Dylan even wakes up enough to realise Tyler’s there. The grin that splits Dylan’s face lights him up and Tyler has slightly more difficulty ignoring the outright lurch that happens in his chest cavity at that. He covers it with a manly hug and bro-pat. And if it goes on just a little bit longer than socially acceptable, he’ll blame it on the sleepy way Dylan leans into him and the time it takes the neurons in his brain to fire the release command to his arms. Totally out of his control. Just like a stroke.

“Hey, man.” Dylan grins at him. “Still destroying the environment with that monstrosity?” he says, pointing at Tyler’s truck. It’s an old argument and all teasing. 

“More room for guests,” he shrugs with a smile in return. He opens the back and hefts Dylan’s case in easily. 

“Touché,” Dylan remarks as he climbs in. 

Tyler waits for him to buckle up before navigating the way out.

“So, how have you been?” Dylan asks as they exit onto Sepulveda, and it might be Tyler’s imagination but it sounds almost hesitant, possibly guilty. Which, given they’ve only shared half a handful of text messages since Dylan’s been in Atlanta, and Tyler happens to know for a fact Posey has been getting almost daily essay updates, it could well be.

“Same old, same old.” Tyler shrugs, flexing his fingers against the leather of the steering wheel in the hand equivalent of a shrug also. It’s a non-answer, but he’s feeling strangely cautious; the lingering feeling of Dylan’s epic freeze-out earlier in the year still too fresh. 

“Surf been good?” Dylan asks next, and Tyler glances from the road for a second to side-eye him with a raised eyebrow, because that is not something Dylan cares enough about to start a conversation with him on.

“Not bad,” he answers, merging onto the I-105. “It’s a lot easier when you can just roll out of bed and into the surf, you tend not to miss the good mornings because you were too lazy to go look.”

Dylan nods, turning to look out at the morning light filtering over the suburban sprawl. “I bet. I kinda wish I had a bit more of a break, even though, you know...” He gestures at nothing which Tyler takes to mean Dylan doesn’t want to seem ungrateful at having work opportunities.

“You’re allowed to be tired, Dyl.”

Dylan snorts, amused. “What, you worried about me now, Hoechlin?”

“Always,” Tyler answers before he can stop himself. It’s true, and not necessarily something to be embarrassed about; he’s protective of all his friends and they’re well aware of it. He’s the dorky too-young-to-be dad. But something in his tone has betrayed him, because Dylan turns too sharply to stare at him.

Tyler covers the awkwardness by rummaging in the center console for his sunglasses. That they give him a modicum of privacy when he slides them onto his is just a bonus.

“So,” Tyler says after a strained and strange silence. “How’s Atlanta been treating you? You a big movie star yet?”

Dylan continues to stare at him for another long second before answering. “Nah, but it’s been fun. I’ve missed you guys a lot, it feels wrong to be there without you all, but the guys are pretty great. Max and Harvey are kinda epic. Tiya is a lot of fun.”

“Lots of new people,” Tyler remarks as he follows the signs for Long Beach. He knows new people aren't always an easy thing for Dylan.

“Definitely,” Dylan replies, then, quieter, “I’m not kidding that I’ve missed you.”

“We’ve missed you, too,” Tyler says, swallowing against the flutter Dylan’s soft admission brings to his throat. “I’m pretty sure Posey was about to stage an intervention to bring you back.”

“I didn’t mean...” Dylan begins, but then cuts himself off.

There’s a weird tension in the car and Tyler doesn’t know how to interpret it. It usually means he’s succumbing to his long-term crush on his co-star, but he doesn’t think he started it this time, can’t possibly see how he would have. Something is off kilter. 

“Didn’t mean what?” he prompts. 

But Dylan won’t say what he started, it seems, and there’s a soft swish of material as he shrugs, cotton of his sweatshirt brushing against the upholstery of the seat. “Nothing. Hey, would it be super rude if I took a nap? I couldn’t really sleep on the plane... Or do you need me to play navigator?”

Tyler laughs, even though there’s a shaky covering of awkwardness to it, because Dylan’s sense of direction is well known and mocked. “It’s cool,” he says as he merges into the 405. “It’s basically the same drive to UC Irvine and then onto the freeway. Though I may get a complex if you keep falling asleep on me, and that’s all on you.”

“Pfft,” Dylan dismisses. “You should be so lucky as to have me fall asleep on you.”

Tyler rolls his eyes and internally curses at whatever gods are in hearing range, because seriously?

“Trust me, D, if you were on top of me, you wouldn’t be falling asleep,” he quips, flashing Dylan an evil Derek-grin. Because there is absolutely no way to play that sentence in any other way. It would only be weirder to let it go un-commented upon.

He can’t keep his eyes off the road for more than a second, but he could swear Dylan’s eyes go wide. 

For a moment, Tyler doesn’t breathe, and he’s fairly sure Dylan doesn’t either. Time slows into a sticky molasses where neither of them says a word; not a laugh, not a jibe in return. Just a stark silence that is at once weirdly comfortable and at the same time itchy, a precipice that threatens to crumble. 

A car horn blares up ahead of them and the moment is broken, sailing away like the gulls gliding above them on the jet stream.

“Um, so, wake me up if you get bored, then?” Dylan asks hesitantly.

“Sure thing,” Tyler says, though he won’t. 

Dylan curls into the door and rests his head against his arm and the window in a way that would be uncomfortable to anyone but him. Tyler has seen him fast asleep standing on one leg, though, so it doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.

The weird feeling persists, a low thrum under Tyler’s skin until Dylan falls asleep, soft snores coming from his side of the vehicle. Then the only awkwardness is relegated to Tyler’s head as he rolls the conversation around inside it. By the time they hit the outskirts of San Diego, the sun a risen disc of heat behind them, he’s almost managed to dismiss it as nothing more than his slow slide into crazytown. Almost.

Dylan wakes a couple of miles from their destination, and the soft happy smile he gets at seeing Tyler when he opens his eyes almost makes Tyler drive them into ongoing traffic. 

He might be heading for crazytown, but he’s starting to wonder if he’s maybe not alone on the ride.

 

**Celeb Party or Old Man’s Pub**

Okay, so Dylan knows going to sleep in the car was a cop-out. He does. It was pretty pathetic and not at all what he had planned on the plane trip over. But confronted with Hoechlin, tanned and toothy and fairly oozing Californian relaxed confidence, he thinks he’s okay with curling up in a ball – literally – and ignoring the situation.

He isn’t _proud_ of it, but it’s the first time he’s seen Hoechlin since his rather disturbing revelation that he wants to jump his bones, and that’s a lot for a guy of twenty-one to take in. 

Dylan doesn’t do pining. Except for how, like Stiles, he does and is particularly good at it. But unlike Stiles, his pining is short-term; it takes a little bit of moping and woe-is-me to get the nerve up to do something about it. And the point is, he always does something about it. Even if it’s excruciatingly soul-baring. He did it asking a girl to prom, he did it deciding to pursue acting. It’s his enigma – so scared of his own shadow that he has to jump into the fear of it. His mom calls him brave. He just calls himself too much of a wimp to deal with constant self-doubt.

So maybe while he’s been in Atlanta he’s been studiously ignoring his feelings for Hoechlin, in between bouts of wanting to talk to him and then freezing with his thumb on the send button of a text-message. That’s cool, because he’s also reached the fight-or-flight portion of the game and he’s given himself until the end of the weekend to do something about the situation, for good or bad.

He hadn’t really counted on Comic Con being so overwhelmingly... overwhelming. They were here last year, but they were nobody then. Unrecognised and free to blend in with the crowds. Not so much this time around. There are people crying, full-on tears streaming down their faces because they can’t fit in the room to see the _Teen Wolf_ panel. Which is so bizarre Dylan can’t even process it.

He’s outside with Matt waiting to be shuffled to the interviews, and there are kids screaming at _him_ across the road and he wants to go talk to them, tell them to chill and just talk to them because oh my god, they have _fans_ , but the burly security dudes won’t let him. 

All of which means he barely has a second to even see Hoechlin, much less subtly put the moves on him and wait for the ultimate rejection.

By the time he finishes the table interviews, he doesn’t even know where Hoechlin is. Posey and Crystal decide to visit some club they’ve heard of, and Holland and Colton are happy to tag along wherever, as long as they have each other’s company. And can Dylan just say, they seem to be even more co-dependent than usual. It’s a little disturbing.

Which is how he finds himself in some ridiculous hipster bar in downtown San Diego with the clock approaching midnight. Pining. 

The music isn’t actually that bad – it’s Posey after all – and even if his musical tastes are a little more hardline punk than Dylan’s, they’re at least palatable. It’s not like he really has a leg to stand on anyway... what with the rather embarrassing crush he has on One Direction... even if that is mostly just to mention in front of Posey and watch his head spin. 

The company, though. Well, okay, the company is fine, but Crystal is dancing with Posey, both of them a jumble of arms and legs and absence of care-factor over the way they look. Holland and Colton are wrapped around each other like it’s a waltz. Which leaves Dylan. Kinda on his own. Even the novelty of being able to legally purchase his own alcohol is wearing off, even if the buzz of it in his veins isn't.

According to Holland, Hoechlin had disappeared off with JR and Ian. And if Dylan guesses correctly, Jill is somewhere in the mix there, too. He won’t lie to himself; it smarts, being lumped in with the kids while Hoechlin goes off with the grownups.

Especially when, apparently, he’s the fifth wheel in _either_ group.

He kind of wants to take the pathetic way out again, to go back to the hotel room where they dumped their stuff and ran from this morning, and curl up in bed watching reruns of Gilligan's Island or something. Basically, he wants to mope. 

It isn't an option, though, because be it the nerves, the alcohol, or the fact that his sense of time right now is all screwed up thanks to shifting time zones, whatever it is – he’s antsy. Jumpy and foot-tappy and probably rivalling Stiles in the erratic movement stakes. If he goes to the hotel he'll be just as bad, worse even, because then he'll be bored.

Fuck it. This is ridiculous, Dylan thinks, yanking his phone out of his pocket and swiping it on. He scrolls down to Hoechlin's name with his fingernail-bitten thumb and swipes that, too. 

The call searches to connect and Dylan counts the rings. It gets to six and he's about one more from ending the call when he hears it pick up, fingers fumbling against the microphone, and he hears music and laughter in the background.

"Dylan." Hoechlin sounds pleased to hear from him and Dylan would be lying if it didn't make him feel warm inside.

"Hey, man. Hope your night is going better than mine," he starts, kicking himself at his whiney tone. Way to confirm you're an adult.

Hoechlin laughs, warm and genuine in his ear. "Not bad, but it could be better. Where are you?"

Dylan tries not to assume those two sentences are meant to be connected. "Somewhere out with the guys, watching the others dance and feeling left out."

"Come here," Hoechlin says, and the way he says it is so authoritative, so sure, that Dylan just wants to up and follow like a puppy.

He's surprisingly okay with that.

"Sure I won't be cramping your style?" he asks, just to be sure. He's not at all up to turning up and finding Hoechlin hitting on some leggy brunette. 

Hoechlin snorts. "Please, we're just hanging at a pub down on um,” there’s a moment as he presumably checks the address with someone, “on 4th." Hoechlin pauses and then says, softly, "Seriously, come?"

And really, it isn’t like Dylan is going to say 'no'. He gets the address and promises to be there within the half hour. It takes him a good ten minutes to find his way through the dance floor-slash-mosh-pit, and even then he can only tap Posey on the shoulder and make hand gestures he hopes communicate his leaving. Crystal pouts, no doubt assuming he's feeling left out, so he hugs her and kisses her cheek with a grin until she's laughing and Posey is watching her, transfixed. 

He waves at Holland and Colton, both of whom blow him a kiss, and then he's pouring himself out of the sea of people and music and into the warm San Diego night air. It turns out, Google Maps assures him, that Hoechlin and the others are actually only a couple of streets over, so he forgoes the cab, choosing to walk instead.

The streets are well lit, and in the middle of Comic Con weekend, filled with Klingons and Stormtroopers. There's a definite college-town feel, and not for the first time, Dylan wonders what his life would be like if things had gone differently. If he'd been at Syracuse up to his ears in liberal arts subjects. 

In some ways he thinks he would have liked the whole university thing, and hell, it's not like he doesn't still have time to do it if he wants to later. He has the freedom it brings, especially with filming in Atlanta, or at least, having been in Atlanta. And there are definite feelings of finding himself attached to getting to act as a job. But he wonders about the friendships, the one-night stands, the awkward relationships and nights out getting drunk after finals. 

His life would be entirely different right now if he’d gone, though. Things and people he couldn’t have known about but would have been, in a cosmic sense, devastating to have missed. One of whom is inside the establishment coming up on his right.

Hoechlin was right; Irish and dark-tinted, it couldn’t be called anything but a pub. Inside Dylan’s hit by a wall of air-conditioned air smelling of Guinness and stale peanuts. The music is loud and reminds him disturbingly of _Lord of the Dance_. 

“Look who’s left the kiddie table.” Jill grins at him when he finds them in the back at a table of empties and half-drunk glasses of beer. The leer is way more Kate than Jill, which gives him a pretty good idea of how these get-togethers go down. 

Ian snickers next to her, unconsciously doing his own character imitation of Peter, and Dylan briefly questions the wisdom of sitting down. But JR is smiling, taking in his arrival with his usual laid-back contentment, and none of Chris Argent’s predatory malice, and Hoechlin...

Hoechlin is grinning like every one of his teeth must see daylight at once, pulling over a chair from the table next to them and scooting over to make room for Dylan like he’s beyond happy to see him.

It makes Dylan’s chest flutter and his stomach swoop like the time in grade school his first crush lent him her pencil with the heart shaped eraser on the end. Which, yeah, if he’s making that connection seem logical, then clearly it’s time to do something about the situation before it hits epic levels of insanity. Or possibly drink less.

“What up, homies?” he grins, slipping into Stiles like a second skin. If the night demands it ,then who is he to ignore it?

Hoechlin snorts and claps an arm around Dylan’s shoulders, a hot brand searing through his t-shirt. “ _Homies_ , seriously?”

Dylan blinks at him slowly, wide-eyed innocence. “Are you saying you’re not my homie, Hoechlin? Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”

Hoechlin's eyes are slightly glassy from booze, his posture languid and relaxed. “Awww, don’t be like that, D. You know I love you.”

“Ha,” Dylan snorts, sarcasm his only defence from examining the hell out of that. “Words, words. It’s all I ever hear from you, man. If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”

Hoechlin’s mouth opens but he can’t seem to find any words, which Dylan finds incredibly satisfying, as he’s sure his smug grin must convey to the rest of the table.

Ian dissolves into very unmanly giggles and JR chuckles, indicating to a passing waitress for another round. 

Jill is just watching them shrewdly in a way that makes Dylan decidedly uncomfortable. “So,” she says, smirking, “before you walked in, O’Brien, we were in the middle of a very important social rite of passage.”

Dylan arches an eyebrow in question.

“Truth or dare,” she grins and drinks down the last third of her beer in one go. 

“Are you kidding me?” Dylan asks. “I thought you were meant to be the adults of this shindig.”

“Think again,” JR comments. “It’s Ian’s turn.”

“Unbelievable,” Dylan mutters, secretly quite happy to find himself not at all out of his depth in the maturity stakes.

He gratefully accepts the beer that’s passed to him as the waitress returns, not caring in the slightest what it is. His earlier buzz is wearing off and he has a feeling he’s going to need it back pronto.

Hoechlin is vibrating next to him, laughing silently in little hiccups that make the side of his arm slide against the back of Dylan’s neck. Hoechlin’s hand dangles over his shoulder and Dylan tries not to think about the fact that, with Hoechlin’s long fingers so close he could simply turn his head and...

Yep. Beer. More beer is a fantastic idea, he thinks, drinking half of the one in front of him in a solid pull. Across from him, Ian is saying “So, Wagner, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Jill answers sweetly, like she isn’t harbouring the devil incarnate that is Kate Argent. 

Ian’s eyes glint. “Hoechlin’s abs; do they really taste salty?”

Jill tips her head backwards and laughs uproariously, and Hoechlin chokes on his beer before laying his forehead against Dylan’s shoulder laughing. His breath is hot down Dylan’s arm and Dylan shifts awkwardly, wondering why on earth he thought it was a good idea to join them. On the plus side, the boner he’s about to spring will probably clue Hoechlin in quite well. Fuck.

“Mostly they just tasted like skin, sorry to disappoint, boys.” She grins with a wink in Dylan’s direction that has his mind looping in semi-drunken confusion. “My turn,” she crows, fingertips steepled like Mr Burns hatching nefarious plans. 

She turns to Dylan.

“Oh shit,” he manages, much to the amusement of the rest of the table. Hoechlin is back in his own chair, arms thankfully kept to himself, but he’s looking at Dylan like he hung the moon, clearly drunk but with such humour and affection in his eyes that Dylan finds he can’t look at him for fear or jumping him right there at the table. 

“Truth or dare, sugarpie?” Jill taunts like a siren tugging Dylan towards the rocks. 

“Um... truth?” Dylan answers in a question. Honestly, he’s not sure which is the more dangerous.

“Do _you_ want to lick Hoechlin’s salty abs?” 

Yeah, okay. Truth was clearly the more dangerous. 

His stunned expression spurs Jill on. “If you don’t answer then you have to do the daaaa-rreeee,” she sings. 

He can’t look beside him, can’t chance seeing Hoechlin right now, can’t chance Hoechlin seeing him. This is not how he imagined this going down. He was meant to be in control, the way he likes things. Safe. 

“Uh, dare, then,” he says meekly, aware that Hoechlin has gone still beside him. That much he can tell even without looking.

Jill leans forward, the others at the table holding a collectively evil breath. “I dare you to lick them.”

 

**Vampire or Werewolf**

Dylan’s teeth are on his neck. 

Dylan. Teeth. Neck.

Tyler isn’t sure any of it makes sense, and he’s not sure he cares. Scrap that; he’s damn sure he doesn’t care. One minute he was at the bar, focused on the way Dylan’s neck was flushing red and then he was met with startled brown eyes. 

He’d been expecting Dylan to laugh, to make a joke full of innuendo, or to scoff and tell Jill where to shove her dare. What he wasn’t expecting was the way Dylan’s mouth fell open but no sound came out, the way Dylan looked at him, guilty and caught and embarrassed all at once, which Tyler hadn’t seen since those first few weeks of filming when Dylan thought every time he fucked up a line he’d be booted off set, unmasked for the actor he wasn’t. 

He hadn’t expected the way Dylan seemed to shake himself out of his stupor, shut his mouth with an audible clack, and raise an eyebrow with bravado Tyler knows he has never possessed. And then Dylan winked at him.

Just like that, all of Tyler’s notions of professionalism and friendship went out the window. Time had simultaneously quickened and slowed, and then Dylan’s fingers were wrapped around Tyler’s wrist like a brand, tugging him through the bar and into the cool night air.

“We’re not doing this where ‘everybody knows your name,’ Hoechlin,” Dylan muttered, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

Lips which he brought his fingers to and whistled, loud and like the New Jersey kid that he clearly was, arm raised to flag down a passing cab. 

And now here they are, in Tyler’s hotel room that MTV is paying for, Dylan pressing him up against the door. 

It’s a linear timeline, point A leading to point B, and yet Tyler doesn’t understand it. He’s wanted Dylan for seemingly years, knowing it would never happen, and now he has Dylan’s teeth digging into the tendons of his neck. 

“Wait, Dyl, wait,” he murmurs and Dylan makes this _noise_ like it physically pains him to even think about detaching his mouth from where it’s now nuzzling at Tyler’s throat. 

He laughs, pushes Dylan gently until there’s at least an inch of space between them, lets his fingers rest on Dylan’s hips, though, reassurance that he won’t let him go far. Dylan’s mouth is obscene, wet with spit and swollen red from Tyler’s stubble; his eyes are wide and black in the darkened hotel room. Neither of them had taken the time to turn on the lights, to examine this moment in anything approaching harsh reality. 

“Hoechlin,” Dylan grouses, his breath hot where it hits against Tyler’s cheek. “I swear to god, if you cock block me right now...”

He ignores the lust, focuses on the alcohol lacing Dylan’s breath, lets his fingers curl just a tiny bit into the hot jut of Dylan’s hips. “D, are you sure?”

Dylan rolls his eyes, which is not at all reassuring, even if it does make Tyler want to smile. “I have never been more sure of anything, Hoechlin. Ever.”

“We’ve been drinking,” Tyler points out, tries valiantly to ignore the way Dylan is practically vibrating against him, the way Dylan’s body is swaying into him like it has no choice.

“I wanted to do this months ago,” Dylan says, vulnerability suddenly lacing his words, lashes dipping to avoid eye contact. 

“Seriously?” Tyler asks, and okay, he could maybe dial it down a little on the incredulity, but fuck. They could have been doing this _for months_?

Dylan lifts his gaze, and yeah, it’s cliché and ridiculous, but Tyler swears what he sees there, the honesty, makes his heart skip. Sue him. He’s always been an incurable romantic, he accepted it long ago.

“I maybe realised... a while back,” Dylan says, shifting a little under Tyler’s hands.

And if Dylan can do it, can put himself out there, then Tyler can fucking man up too. 

“Glad you caught up,” he murmurs, tugging Dylan in.

Dylan’s eyes go impossibly wide. “What? You... _me_. Are you kidding?”

Tyler shrugs, feels his mouth twist into a smirk. “What can I say, you’re- ” but his words are cut off by Dylan’s mouth as it captures his roughly.

The distance between them is gone and Dylan is pressed against him, a long line of heat pushing Tyler greedily into the door. Dylan’s mouth is hot, wet, demanding, and Tyler groans, clutches at Dylan’s waist and pulls him harder against him. The full-body shudder that rends its way through Dylan’s body is immensely satisfying. 

Dylan pulls back with a gasp for air, pushing his hips into Tyler’s, both of them hard and needy. Never has Tyler been so thankful that Dylan is practically the same height as him as their cocks line up, pressing and rutting through the thickness of their jeans. 

“Jesus,” Dylan whimpers into the shell of Tyler’s ear, causing him to shiver. 

He doesn’t bother responding, instead pushes off from the door and begins to walk Dylan backwards towards the bed. Their feet tangle and they almost tip but manage a semi-controlled fall onto the bed instead. Dylan is under him, his body an expanse of muscle, bone and skin that Tyler wants nothing more than to map every inch of. With his mouth.

Apparently Dylan has similar ideas because he’s tugging at Tyler’s t-shirt, abandoning it to pull his own over his head as soon as Tyler gets with the program and removes it himself. Buckles are snapped open and jeans shimmied down, and before he knows it he has Dylan below him, naked on crisp white sheets, flushed red, hard and leaking and wide-eyed.

The first taste has Tyler moaning; Dylan’s pre-cum is salty and bitter on his tongue and he chases it, letting Dylan’s cock slide into his mouth without further teasing. The choked-off whimpers Dylan is making, the way Dylan’s fingers slide into Tyler’s hair, his fingernails scratching at Tyler’s scalp, tell him it was the right choice to make. 

It takes almost nothing to bring Dylan to the brink, which, okay, he’s twenty-one, that’s not that surprising. Tyler doesn’t let him fall, though, brings him to moans and grunts and then lets Dylan’s cock slip free with a wet smack against his taut abs. 

Dylan doesn’t complain, dragging Tyler closer into a punishing kiss that’s all saliva and hints of teeth, tongue stabbing counterpoint to his jerking hips, their cocks trapped and slick between their flush stomachs. 

“I can’t,” Dylan whispers, voice dark and rough like he was the one with a cock down his throat instead of Tyler. “Tyler, I can’t...”

“Then don’t,” Tyler all but orders, latches his own teeth into the juncture between Dylan’s shoulder and neck and bites. Hard.

Dylan rears back, eyes going wide and breath fucking _stopping_ as his hips jackknife and he comes, hot, wetness pushing into the sweat-soaked space between them.

Tyler can feel his own eyes roll back, unable to deal with the culmination of his wet dream fodder becoming real after this long a time and he follows, come spurting and pulsing out of him into the mess of them. 

Dylan is breathing harshly as if he’s just run a marathon and Tyler isn’t much better. He slips off just enough to support his own weight on a hip and returns his mouth to Dylan’s neck, laves the indentations left by his own teeth with the flat of his tongue.

“Oh my god,” Dylan gasps softly, seemingly talking to the ceiling. “Oh my god.”

Tyler huffs a laugh into the wet skin and places a nipping bite to the side of his previous one. It causes Dylan to groan, his spent cock jerking gently against Tyler’s abs. 

“So you like the biting,” he teases, pushing up on his arm just enough to see Dylan’s sleepy, blissed-out face. “Good to know.”

“Fuckng werewolves,” Dylan mumbles and captures Tyler’s mouth with his own.

 

**Blonde or Brunette**

Apparently he didn’t close the curtains the night before. Sunlight is streaming in offensively, blinding Dylan as he fights against the sleep mercilessly tugging at him to re-surrender. 

He can’t remember if there’s anything planned for this morning. Does he have to be up early? Is there an interview, a panel? He hopes not. He doesn’t think there is, but frankly, his brain isn’t working all that well right now and he doesn’t know if he can trust it.

A groan beside him has last night flooding back and full alertness winning out over sleep, because Hoechlin is in bed beside him. Naked. 

“Why is the sun up?” Hoechlin mumbles into the pillow he’s dragged over his face.

“I thought you liked mornings?” Dylan asks, staring sideways at the way the sun catches in the dark hairs scattered across Hoechlin’s chest. It glints, turning the ends almost blonde in illusion.

The pillow is flung backwards and Hoechlin looks at him, soft and happy and recently fucked. “Only when there is surfing involved.”

“Only surfing?” Dylan asks, trying for innocent and happily failing. 

“Okay,” Hoechlin amends, turning to face Dylan, a sleep-warm hand landing on Dylan’s hip. “Not just surfing.”

The hand drops, fingertips skimming Dylan’s abs and threading into the wiry hair at the base of his steadily becoming interested cock. 

“This was a fucking fantastic idea,” he hums as Hoechlin scratches his fingernails against the skin, tickling as Dylan’s pubic hair threads around his fingers. 

“I’m inclined to agree,” Hoechlin murmurs, warm hand encircling Dylan’s filling cock. 

Dylan pushes up into it slowly, letting the sleepy warm feeling fade gently into building arousal. A fucking great idea. 

Later, when Hoechlin’s hand is covered in come, Dylan returns the favour, jerking Hoechlin into a shivery mess. Dylan watches the way Hoechlin’s muscles twitch, the way his fingers clench in the sheets. How his thighs tighten and freeze as his orgasm hits, eyelids fluttering shut and mouth falling open. 

They fall asleep again as the sun inches higher, climbing the wall in a burning stripe. Legs tangled and kisses slowing to sighs. 

 

**Diet or Exercise**

Dylan likes to pretend he neither exercises nor diets, but Tyler knows different. Despite the fact that Dylan is thin as a rake and has limbs that are long and seemingly _everywhere_ at any one time, like some metrosexual teenage incarnation of Vishnu, Tyler is well aware Dylan is actually is incredibly defined underneath the skinny jeans and t-shirts.

Compared with the other guys on the show, Dylan is definitely the slightest and, partly because Stiles is meant to be weedy and awkward, there won’t be any revealing topless scenes any time soon. Tyler thinks this is a damn shame, because Dylan is built. He's not bulky, but he's got muscle, tone and strength in abundance. 

And okay, maybe Dylan doesn't do the diet thing, because fuck, he's twenty-one and has the metabolism of a cheetah, but he does work out. Tyler has witnessed it. Dylan is always climbing things, running places, pulling himself up and throwing himself down. He does crunches without knowing it, sitting straight up in bed before flopping down, first for the remote, then for the abandoned pack of pop-tarts, then the laptop, then Tyler's iPod, then Tyler's dick. Dylan does push-ups mid conversation, dropping to the floor and doing five before popping back up and answering the question Tyler is patiently waiting for. He works off excess energy all day, everyday. 

It may not be the same gym routine Tyler pushes himself to complete every morning come hell or high-water, but it clearly works for Dylan.

It's evident in the ripple of muscle beneath the skin as Dylan writhes above him. The flex of his taut thighs as he rises up and slides back down Tyler's cock. The stretch across his chest, as the flimsy t-shirt pulls tight over Dylan's pecs. There's a strength in him belied by his slight frame. He can easily push Tyler up against a doorframe, make him moan and hold him in place even when Tyler wants to take control.

And his arms. Fuck, _Dylan's fucking arms_. It's all drums, and a little baseball thrown in, and jesus, the tendons. Tyler frequently has to throw Dylan down on the bed and pin his wrists above his head so he can _gnaw_ on those forearms. 

“You have weird kinks,” Dylan says each and every time.

“You are my kink,” Tyler invariably responds.

“Just as long as we’re both on the same page,” Dylan will reply, and despite himself begin to melt into the bed as Tyler bites and licks and sucks his way up from wrist to inner elbow.

Dylan himself always scoffs at the idea of doing exercise or at eating well. Especially when Tyler refuses to be force-fed Doritos or leave the warmth of their bed at four in the morning to go lift weights. Tyler thinks maybe it might be a self-confidence thing: don't look at me because I don't work out and I eat like a pig. 

Tyler does look, though, and he likes what he sees.

 

**Tequila or Jager**

He wasn’t even legally allowed to drink when he was asked the question in an interview. Tequila or Jager. He knows he can’t answer, isn’t supposed to know such an answer, though – come on, that’s just ridiculous. Everyone knows he knows the answer, and everyone knows the lie when he laughs, forced and awkward, and says, _ludicrously_ , freakin’ _Ginger Ale_ like he’s eight years old. 

Dylan laughs it off because it’s what he does, and he’s forgotten it a second later, waiting for the next question.

He sees the interview again a few months after Hoechlin and he start seeing each other. It’s a rainy afternoon, hot and muggy in a way LA ought not be, and Hoechlin is sacked out on the bed where they fucked earlier. Dylan’s usually awake before Hoechlin and he’s already gotten into the habit of keeping his laptop nearby to entertain himself.

Today he’s shamelessly googling himself, clicking through links and posts with eyerolls or soft snorts of laughter. The interview comes up in the recommended tabs on YouTube – he can’t help but feel nostalgic about YouTube, even when he comes across videos of his sixteen-year-old self and cringes. He never did see the interview after they shot it, though his sister sent him the link with a snarky comment about how much sex she was sure he wasn’t having.

“Tequila or Jager?” the interviewer asks.

He watches himself stutter, remembers the embarrassment he felt at not knowing how to answer without getting into trouble or sounding like a moron. 

Yeah, it’s a battle he lost.

This time, as the interviewer’s voice takes him back to that day, that moment and that question, a different answer comes to mind. A split second of skin and heat, Tequila in his head and throat. Images of licking salt from between Hoechlin’s ribs, chasing rivulets of amber liquid with his tongue over Hoechlin’s stomach as it traitorously flees across the flat expanse of skin, drips down his sides and into the carpet. The jump of Hoechlin’s abs under his tongue, the sharp inhale as Dylan’s tongue dips into his navel, chasing, chasing, _chasing_. Licking lime and cold out of his mouth.

He closes the laptop and pads barefooted to the bed. Hoechlin is on his stomach, snuffling into the mattress, and it takes nothing for Dylan to settle over his thighs, his cock nestling in the groove of Hoechlin’s ass as he leans over and sucks bruises up his spine.

“Mmmmff,” Hoechlin mumbles into the sheets. “Whatchudoin’?”

“Thirsty,” Dylan answers, huffs his laugh into the warm space between Hoechlin’s jaw and throat. 

Ginger Ale. Yeah, right.

 

**Sex or Food**

Season Three comes around with no Colton and no Atlanta. It’s strange, shooting in LA. On the one hand, Tyler doesn’t have to uproot his life, can still see his friends and family, can still live in the same house. At the same time, though, there’s something to be said for the way moving away to film feels somehow illicit, like an adventure to be fulfilled. 

It also means he isn’t sharing a flat with Dylan and Posey. None of the others know about what they’ve been doing, well – with the exception of Jill, JR, and Ian who pretty much guessed after the two of them disappeared from the pub that night in a cloud of sexual anticipation. But even they don’t know the full story, that it wasn’t just that one drunken night. They spend as much time together as they can, when late nights filming and early call times don’t make it impossible. Which is rare.

Weekends are easy, with no one to know if Tyler spends the days curled up on the couch in Dylan’s apartment, watching 80s movies or learning lines. No one to know if Dylan lives at Tyler’s or at the beach house.

During the week they’re at least on set together, and no one blinks an eye at any of the cast spending time together. They’re friends, afterall. It’s presented its own challenges, though, when one or the other of them forgets and goes to stick a tongue down the other’s throat, or back the other up against a tree. 

They’ll tell the others eventually; neither of them is ashamed of what they’re doing, but for now they’re enjoying it just being them. The direction the current plot they’re shooting has led to Tyler and Dylan being in a lot of scenes together, and conversely, _not_ in a lot of them together. Which leads to a pocket of time when they’re both not needed on set and can hole up together in one of the trailers, making out in increasingly sneaky ways that Hair and Makeup won’t notice. 

Right now, for example, Dylan is pretending he’s eating nachos.

Tyler believes he’s pretending, because he knows the way Dylan eats; like the apocalypse is coming and starvation is right around the corner. What’s happening right now is not that.

Dylan offered Tyler some when he came up into the trailer with a plate piled high with corn chips, melted cheese, guacamole, salsa, and sour cream. Craft Services had outdone themselves, and Tyler’s stomach rumbles at the thought. What they both know, however, is that Tyler won’t let any of those yummy carbs anywhere near his digestive system. He has a topless scene next week – when doesn’t he? – and there’s just not enough sit-ups in the world. 

It’s okay. He’s used to abstaining. 

What he isn’t used to is the way Dylan is eating. Which is not so much eating as tempting out of Eden. With his tongue. 

Tyler first gets an inkling of what’s going on when Dylan makes a soft ‘mmmm’ noise, dragging him out of the scene he’s trying to memorise to see Dylan’s tongue darting out to catch a drip of wayward salsa as it slips down his wrist. 

Tyler just shakes his head and returns to the page. Dylan is a messy eater.

When the noise comes again he tries to ignore it, but the soft shift in Dylan’s movements again catches his attention, and this time when he looks up, Dylan is winding an errant bit of melted cheese with his tongue, chasing it mercilessly until eventual capture. 

“I can see what you’re doing,” he mutters, watching Dylan over the rim of his reading glasses. 

Dylan’s lips are shiny with grease and saliva as his tongue darts back out to swipe at the flavour left on them. “Oh?” Dylan says, and Tyler drinks in the way Dylan is looking at him, eyes glinting with amusement and a hunger Tyler recognises as something entirely different from a want for food. 

“Yes and stop it,” Tyler says sternly. “I have to learn these lines. Someone kept me up late last night so I didn’t get a chance.”

Dylan winks at him, something they both know never fails to turn Tyler on, and then he’s slowly, methodically, extracting another chip from the pile with his fingers. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dylan says with nonchalance. “I’m just eating lunch. I don’t see how my eating lunch affects your ability to, you know, read.”

“You’re not eating lunch.”

“Beg to differ,” Dylan quips, crunching noisily on a corn chip.

It’s the sour cream that catches at the corner of Dylan’s mouth that breaks him. 

“Oh, for the love of...”

The script ends up on the floor, the nachos on the table, and Dylan under Tyler’s thighs as he straddles him in the tiny confines of the trailer.

Dylan tastes, unsurprisingly, like nachos, and Tyler unashamedly chases the flavour, because if he can’t actually have the calories, he can damn well have the idea of them. 

And then food is the last thing on his mind because he has Dylan’s cock and his own in his hand, and the noises Dylan makes as he jerks into him have nothing to do with food and are every bit as sinful as gluttony.

Hair and Makeup are none the wiser. Wardrobe, on the other hand...

 

**White Wedding or Elope**

_Dylan_

Dylan never really gets over the difference between Hoechlin as himself and Hoechlin as Derek. It’s so incongruous that sometimes he finds himself watching Derek’s scenes with a little too much intensity. It’s been remarked upon many times, though it came with a little less ribbing and a few more knowing smiles after he and Hoechlin came out to the crew. So to speak. 

And by ‘came out’ he means ‘were caught making out in the second AD’s office sometime during Season Four’. 

It’s bizarre, is all, for all that they’re actors and the more convincing the better their craft; it’s weird to see the man you’re working with, living with, fucking, turn into someone else.

Hoechlin is the most positive person Dylan knows. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his moments of self-doubt or grumpiness or even annoyance. Dylan has seen all of those things in Hoechlin at one point or another, but instead of stewing in them like Dylan would, and does, Hoechlin just lets it go.

It’s something Dylan has started unconsciously mimicking. And it isn’t just that, either. He’s started to have to work at remembering Stiles’ incessant movement – Hoechlin, the bastard, has started to calm him down. It’s disgusting, and if Posey is to be believed, fucking hilarious to everyone else that isn’t them.

He can’t really find it in him to care. 

Hoechlin always makes sure Dylan is settled before he thinks about himself, always seeks him out when entering a room. Checks in with him just to see what he’s doing at random times in the day. Always spoons up behind him in bed, arms tight around him. And his laugh still makes Dylan want to climb him like a monkey.

Hoechlin is the most attractive man he’s laid eyes or hands on. He’s tooth-achingly sweet and in turn, downright sinfully dirty. It doesn’t matter which it is. They still fuck up against the entranceway wall because they simply can’t make it fifteen steps to the master bedroom, hurried and desperate, all hands and teeth and bone-deep need to get each other off. But there are also other times, lazy Sunday afternoons with Hoechlin above him, sliding slowly into him as Dylan clings, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of Hoechlin’s sides, moans and whimpers falling from his mouth.

Hoechlin keeps him grounded while simultaneously pushing him up to the heavens and encouraging him to grab on. In turn, Dylan riles him up as best he can, teases and cajoles and makes him laugh, pulls him out of his zen state and allows him to explore outside his comfort zone, to learn.

They’re good for each other in a way they never could have guessed when they met at the first table read all those years ago, when they were strangers with everything to lose and everything to gain. 

 

_Tyler_

Tyler couldn’t have been more wrong about his fears for dating a coworker. It turns out to be the best thing he’s ever experienced, and, he hopes, will ever experience. Dylan laughs at him when he says things like that, giggles starting deep in his chest and bubbling out of his throat in childlike mirth. 

Yeah okay, they’re young, and anything could happen, blah blah blah. Tyler has never seen the need to be realistic when it gets in the way of, well, reality. And right now, his reality is pretty damn good.

He surprises Dylan with a half-week trip to New York for his belated twenty-third birthday. He’s cleared it with Jeff and worked it into the schedule. It’s just a short trip, but Tyler has never forgotten the way a sleepy Dylan had described it to him from London that time. 

Dylan just looks at him with wide-eyes and a loud, “Are you shitting me?” when Tyler lets him in on their little escape. “Dude, you are the best!” he follows up with when Tyler assures him it’s for real. He grins and plants a sloppy kiss on Tyler’s mouth.

It’s amazing, he thinks as Dylan drools on his shoulder, fast asleep in the middle of a loud and bustling plane trip, kids screaming and drunken passengers cackling in front of them, how young he sometimes seems. 

Dylan is still, at heart, a somewhat awkward, unsure kid. Everyone who knows him can see how ridiculous the dichotomy is; someone that talented, that attractive, has nothing to worry about in his current profession, or for any of his aspirations. 

But Tyler can see the way Dylan is growing into his skin. As he pins him down into the softness of the king-sized bed in the exorbitantly priced hotel that night, he marvels at the changes he can already see. Dylan’s cheeks are becoming more gaunt, his cheekbones more prominent with maturity. There’s a surety behind the depths of his eyes that is fighting to get out.

Tyler can’t wait to see Dylan come into his own in the next year, or maybe the next two. There will be a moment when Dylan gets it, realises who he is and embraces the gift he has as an actor, the attractiveness he possesses and the power his humour has over people. Because once Dylan gets that? He’ll be _unstoppable_. Tyler can only hope he’ll be along for the ride, get to watch it unfold.

He’s pretty sure he will, because he knows exactly who Dylan is and where he stands beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me on tumblr if you like - i'm [qthelights](http://qthelights.tumblr.com/) there too :)


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